“Hey,” Penelope’s voice says through the door, soft but familiar. “Open up.”
I blow out a breath so shaky it’s embarrassing and unlock the door. She stands there with two coffees in her hands, hair down, wearing a soft cream sweater that should be illegal this early in the day.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, voice rougher than it should be.
She smiles and presses one of the white cups into my hand. “Thought we’d walk to class together,” she says. “You ready?”
Something in me unravels. She’s normal. She’s here. She’s not going anywhere. I take a sip of coffee just so I don’t say something pathetic.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Let me change.”
I pull my shirt off, and I don’t miss the way her eyes instantly track over every inch of exposed skin. She drags her gaze up to my face, cheeks slightly pink.
I smirk. “See something you like?”
She huffs and looks away, but the blush stays.
I yank on a quarter-zip, slide into black joggers, shove my feet into my Birks, and grab my backpack.
“Let’s go, baby,” I say without thinking.
Her breath catches.
She doesn’t correct me.
We head out together.
Chapter Thirty-Three
PENELOPE
By the timemy coffee kicks in, I’ve convinced myself I can fake being a normal TA. Talon falls into step beside me on the main path through campus. He has his sleeves pushed up, backpack hanging from one shoulder, hair doing that intentionally messy thing. I had to hold in a laugh when he slipped his Birkenstock slides on. Talon Grant does not give me Birk vibes, but who am I to judge?
He keeps a careful half-step between us, not touching, not crowding, just there. Close enough that my arm feels his heat whenever our strides sync.
“Did you sleep okay last night?”
“A little,” he says. “You?”
“Kind of. I was pretty wiped after the fitting and the bedroom. But it was a restless sleep.”
The Sociology Building looms ahead. I feel my shoulders roll back automatically; my face shifts into TA-neutral. The shift must show because his fingers flex on his backpack strap like he wants to grab my hand and then remembers where we are.
“Remember the rule,” I murmur.
He smirks. “No flirting in class, no touching behind Brose’s back, no calling you baby by the board.”
“And campus is Switzerland,” I remind him. “Neutral ground. We are normal adults and students who do not have feelings and uncle situations.”
“That is way too many words,” he says. “But yeah, I got it.”
We reach the front doors. He slows, puts his arm out like he’s going to open the door for me then aborts at the last second, shoving his hands into his pockets instead. The restraint punches straight through my rib cage.
“I’ll go in first,” he says. “You follow a minute later.”
“You’ve done this before?” I ask.
He gives me a crooked smile that is more tired than cocky. “I’ve been hiding things from adults since I was six. I’m annoyingly good at it.”
